


Too Much of a Good Thing

by intentioncraft



Series: It's Gonna Be Better [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Dom Cain, Dom/sub, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Florist Dean, M/M, No Sex, Past Castiel/Dean Winchester, Self-Hatred, Slurs, Sub Dean, Tattoo Artist Cain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-07
Updated: 2014-12-07
Packaged: 2018-02-28 13:57:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2735114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/intentioncraft/pseuds/intentioncraft
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean tries to make at least one thing go right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Too Much of a Good Thing

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to [tumblr](http://intentioncrafts.tumblr.com/post/101186639038/dean-cain-same-au-as-this-1-8k-pg-13-d-s).

Dean shows up at Cain’s house about fifteen minutes after their scheduled time following an annoying day in which two bridesmaids from different wedding parties chewed him out over the phone, he received a letter from his father in the mail basically asking for money and for Sam’s address, and Aaron called him halfway through the day to talk about how Dean’s ex showed up at their rented home with a box of relationship mementos. Aaron relayed the message asking if Dean wanted to keep the assortment of junk trinkets and cutesy photographs, and Dean, without thinking, said he’d look through it later.

He hasn’t been home since.

Dean has bad days, days when he just wants to crawl into his bed and forget there’s a world out there that knocks occasionally and asks what kind of pizza toppings he wants, or if he just wants soup instead. Even though he can’t face it, the world still gives a shit about him because his mom is dead and his dad is a loser and he’s lost, so lost lately. The world takes enough pity on him for that, most of the time.

Then there are day like these, when everybody is looking at him expectantly and he just can’t give them what they want, days when all his problems fall not on fate or bad luck or  _God_ , but on himself, stuff that he can only blame himself for. And hiding from it all only makes him feel even worse, selfish and weak.

But, he forces himself to carry on, like he always does, to try and make at least one thing go right.

Cain opens his porch door wearing a navy blue-and-white striped apron and his customary frown. Dean can smell something sweet and cinnamony billowing out from the open door but his stomach churns wretchedly, empty and sensitive over the built-up stress of the day.

“You’re a bit late,” Cain remarks, never accusatory, always testing.

“Customer came in two minutes before closing to arrange a funeral delivery,” he bites out. Dean has a hard time saying no when there’s someone in his shop, especially if that someone is in deep mourning for a lost loved one. It wasn’t her fault, not like she wanted to be there any more than he did.

Cain lets Dean into the house, leads him back to the sitting room and gestures for him to make himself at home like he always does. He maybe says something about cleaning up in the kitchen, checking on something in the oven, but it doesn’t register to Dean’s mind and he just assumes that’s what Cain is doing in the kitchen.

Over ten minutes he slowly sinks down the floral upholstery of Cain’s sofa, head back and eyes closed with the steady ticking of the clock chipping away at his patience while he tries very hard not to think about anything, clear his head, focus his mind on the one thing he’s supposed to be doing right now. It’s no use, however, and he eventually gives up and starts wondering about the box Cas dropped off. Maybe he should have gone home after work, called Cain and let him know he’d be a bit late, just so he could deal with that  _now_  instead of letting it eat away at him like this. Or he could solve that problem now, text Aaron and tell him to throw the box out. Actually, he’d tell him to burn it, maybe, so Dean won’t have a chance to retrieve it before garbage pick up.

Because the mood he’s in, that’s just the kind of thing Dean would go dumpster-diving for.

“Dean, are you with me?” Dean jumps and his eyelids fly open to Cain sitting next to him, now apronless and smelling a bit like baking and lemon dish soap. He didn’t even hear anybody enter the room, never mind get sit down and get close enough to put their hand on his forehead. He shivers a bit when Cain brushes a hand through Dean’s hair and lets his eyes shut again.

“Yeah,” it’s a croak, so he goes for it again, “Yeah, I’m good.”

“I beg to differ. You’re mind is wandering and you’re practically asleep on my couch.”

“Rough day, that’s all,” he says, and then when he realizes what angle Cain’s going for, he immediately backtracks, “but I’m good enough. I need this right now,” he needs distraction, someone to touch him, like the hand on his head, to keep him grounded in the present and not in the memories raking up old, rotting regrets — just give him something else to think about other than weddings and Dad and funerals and that fucking box.

“You’re over-tired. You don’t need anything but rest.” Cain moves his hand down to the back of Dean’s neck and scratches with the tips of his fingers, “We’ll save this for another day.”

Dean knows he’s lost this battle already but he can’t keep from getting angry, frustrated with himself and everybody else because he can’t seem to  _win_ any battles today. Too many things haven’t worked out for him and he just needs this  _one_  thing with this  _one_ person he cares about to succeed, “Why bother, huh? What’s the point of me even coming here if you’re just gonna postpone things until I get my shit together, huh?” He snaps, and then ducks away from Cain’s touch and waits for the warning slap, or for his hair to be pulled, or anything that would confirm for him that Cain’s as disappointed in Dean for letting him down as Dean is.

But Cain watches and waits. He doesn’t try to touch Dean again but folds his hands in his lap instead. He’s giving Dean a  _look_ , he’s always giving Dean  _looks_. Dean pops into his shop during the day to aggravate Cain with coffee and a bagel and a bouquet of cast-offs while he’s gloved up and concentrating on a client and Cain gives him a look. Dean, ass in the air and caught up in the moment trying to figure out what really pushes Cain’s buttons, calls himself a  _good little slut_  and Cain gives him a look. Dean wakes up in the morning, throws on one of Cain’s old shirts and groggily shoves scrambled eggs into his mouth and Cain’s sitting across from him peering over yesterday’s paper and giving him a look.

It’s always the same; a silent look.

But it’s never the same look.

“Dean,” Someone say his name very softly, a familiar tone, the beginning of a familiar song. He knows the words almost by heart now, heard them so many times they’re pretty much etched into his bones.

_Why are you like this?_

_Why are you so broken?_

_What about everything I’ve done for you, isn’t it enough yet? Why isn’t it enough?_

_Why can’t you just understa—_

Dean leans forward and trains his eyes on the glass bowl of shells sitting atop a doily on Cain’s coffee table, “Just don’t — don’t say anything. I’ve heard it a thousand times. It’d be no different coming from you.”

“I have a right to be heard, Dean,” Cain says, before Dean can retaliate he adds, “and you have a right to ignore me but either way, it isn’t going to change my mind about tonight,” he says. Dean’s mouth parts in half-conceived protest, but he’s not sure what he’d be protesting against by now. It’s not like he can protest a punishment if it isn’t happening.

“I won’t ask about what happened to you today. You’re under no obligation to tell me, either,” he says, “but you showed up at my house agitated, tense, and exhausted both emotionally and physically. Also,” Cain’s eyes flick to Dean’s hands clasped over his knees, “you’re shaking. It’s against my principles to subject anybody who’s this worked up already to any more stress, no matter what my intentions are in doing so.”

Dean releases a shaky breath, “So, you’re saying I ruined the night,” of course, because he ruins everything.

“A client cancelled on me today because her son came home from school with a stomach ache. I told her not to worry about the deposit fee and filled her appointment with something else. She’ll come in another day,” Cain says and Dean turns his head to the side to try and figure out what the fuck his point is, “My night’s going just fine, I just had to change my plans a bit to make someone’s day a bit easier.”

Deans shakes his head and sneers, “Nice try, but this isn’t like that. It’s different. ”

Cain gives Dean yet another look, “I suppose it is, but if you had called ahead and said you didn’t want to do anything tonight, I wouldn’t have objected,” Cain explains, doing that thing where he agrees with Dean but then comes out as  _right_  anyway, “As much as I appreciate and care about my clients, it’s not the same as how I feel when I see you so defeated by things you can’t control that you’ll ask anyone to finish the job and destroy you, just so you have some say in how it happens.”

Dean rises at that, but before any thoughts can stick, something dings in the house.

Without turning away from Dean, Cain’s eyes shift toward the kitchen, “My rolls,” he says almost sheepishly.

Dean nods stiffly for him to go get them out of the oven and releases an enormous, shuddering breath when Cain clears the room. He doesn’t feel any better about the day. He isn’t even sure what how he feels about being here anymore, whether he feels mad or helpless or just completely worn out. No matter, what, if he was feeling vulnerable before, he’s now a bundle of raw nerve endings. Fuck, it’d be difficult enough for him to get out of the crummy self-flagellating headspace he’s in now and into another. And then nearly impossible for him to get back out of it once he’s there.

What if he left now, he wonders. Cain wouldn’t stop him, he knows that for sure. He’d probably tell Dean to drive safe and pull over if he can’t concentrate on the road. Call him if anything happens. Text him when he gets home just so he knows Dean made it all right. Dean could go hibernate in his own bed for the weekend and perhaps now that he’s beyond emotionally spent, he can simply ignore everything he has to deal with and go to sleep.

He’s fiddling with his car keys when Cain comes back with one of his many knitted blankets rolled up under one arm and two golden cinnamon rolls on a plate in his free hand. The pastries are still steaming and the icing is melting in thick gooey pools around the sides. Cain stands before him and Dean’s eyes move up to Cain’s face and he can see the look he’s getting now. It’s not a question, or a plea, or a even a suggestion. It’s an offer.

Dean drops his keys on the table.

 


End file.
